


O Holy Night

by kamibanani



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, and then its muy caliente, body horror cw maybe? for angelic/demonic features, cw: gabriel, please enjoy how much my heart hurts for these two, tw for minor pain/pleasure mix, vanilla until the last chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamibanani/pseuds/kamibanani
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale muddle through murky waters one Christmas season.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley receives a mandate from Hell.

"`WE HAVE YOUR NEXT ASSIGNMENT.`"

A gravelly voice boomed through the Bentley's speakers, reverberating with an intensity the sound system wasn't set to; cheerfully dressed passerby on the street gave him sidelong glances, irritation passing over their faces as they gave him the evil eye for disturbing the peace of the first snow during the Christmas season. Never having been one to enjoy drawing attention to himself so overtly, Crowley winced, turning the volume down on the radio until the buzzing stopped.

"Well, well, hello to you too," he drawled, ending in a higher pitch than when he started. " _So_ nice of you to call, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"`THIS IS NOT A SOCIAL CALL.`"

The voice was annoyed; Crowley laughed, mockingly. "Shame, that." He ran his hand through his hair, catching his tongue between his teeth. He wasn't ever particularly pleased about these unexpected calls from the Home Office, especially since they always decided to interrupt the song he was playing right in the middle of a good part. He'd thought — naively, perhaps — that once he upgraded the car stereo to connect to bluetooth and play off his smartphone that the calls from the Home Office would find a different, less disruptive outlet. Obviously, he'd been wrong. He drummed his finger tips against the steering wheel as the voice continued to speak, detailing the minutiae of his next assignment before launching into effusive approval for his latest disruptions in sowing xenophobic discord through the United Kingdom. Crowley was not, in fact, responsible for such a thing, but saw no reason to disabuse his superiors of their notions.

He brought the Bentley to a stop, cutting off the voice with a quick goodbye before switching off the ignition as he pulled up to A.Z. Fell & Co. Bookshop.

"Hello, my dear!"

Aziraphale beamed at him, glowing against a snow-covered backdrop in the way only ephemeral beings could. Something dark and decidedly not bright twisted inside Crowley, even as he met that brilliant smile with one of his own. The angel was effervescent, as always, and he adjusted his sunglasses a little higher on his nose.

"'Elo, 'elo," Crowley replied, and felt a curious stabbing sensation somewhere in his chest as Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in pleasure. "You're in a fine mood, angel."

Said angel rewarded him with another brilliant smile. "Indeed! Wait til you see..."

Aziraphale led the way into the bookshop; Crowley followed without hesitation, throwing just the slightest, cursory glance backward to make sure he wasn't being watched. He shut the doors and winter chill firmly behind him, feeling another smile tug at the corners of his mouth as Aziraphale held up a thick, shabby-looking novel and began describing with loving detail all of its attributes. He watched, mesmerised, as the angel ran his plump fingers down the spine.

There was that stabbing sensation again.

He didn't realise Aziraphale had been speaking to him until he found himself nose-to-nose with the angel, bright blue eyes peering at him with concern as the angel placed a hand against his forehead. Crowley jerked back, mouth open in a startled hiss. Aziraphale stared at him, blinking innocently as Crowley tried to recover; the demon clutched his chest, feeling a dull throb in where he presumed his body's heart must be. "What're you doing?" he managed to gasp out.

The angel dropped his arm, folding his hands together over his stomach serenely and tilting his head to one side. "Are you all right, my dear? You seem, as the humans say, lightyards away."

Crowley choked back a laugh. _Lightyards_ , honestly. "Light _years_ , angel. _Years_."

"Yes, that," Aziraphale agreed amicably, completely unperturbed by his mistake. "Has something happened?"

He harrumphed, turning his head to the side to avoid looking directly at Aziraphale's brilliance. "You could say that," he said, aiming for indifference but settling for something a little more pinched. "The Head Office has just been in touch, I'm meant to leave for a while. You know, stir things up a bit for the locals elsewhere."

Aziraphale said nothing, which suited Crowley just fine for the time being. He tried to summon the willpower to ask if Aziraphale had similarly been charged by Heaven, but the look on the angel's face already told him the answer. They'd be parted, and any ideas Crowley had about spending Christmas (a very important day for Heaven and Hell alike, for different reasons) turned to dust. Instead, he leaned against a nearby table, resting his hand against a dusty stack of books. He stared at his fingers, noting with that sort of pinpoint attention that comes from actively avoiding paying attention to something in particular, just how long and bony they were. Interestingly enough, his index finger was a full fingernail's length shorter than his middle finger, while his ring finger — which should have been identical in length to his index finger — was only half a fingernail's length shorter. He could also see, by virtue of his demonic powers, that there was a long skin wrinkle spanning vertically down his index finger from the cuticle to the first knuckle; something that, for whatever reason, was not present on any of the nine fingers.

Corporeal bodies were quite, _quite_ fascinating.

"Jolly good, then," the angel finally said. Crowley chanced a glance up, and noticed that Aziraphale's light had dimmed, just a bit. There was a change in the air and he inhaled (intentionally, as breathing was optional for him) deeply. Aziraphale's usual scent of aftershave had mingled with something... more melancholy. It smelled like... like...

_Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume..._

Aziraphale's infernal record player warbled out a scratchy rendition of _We Three Kings_ and Crowley had to agree. Myrrh. He looked at the angel, who had put on a pleasant smile that may have fooled anyone that wasn't Crowley. It was so wrenchingly endearing that he couldn't help but needle him a bit.

"Going to miss me, are we?"

Crowley grinned widely as he watched Aziraphale's brows knit together in consternation. "Absolutely not," the angel denied, even though every one of Crowley's senses told him otherwise. "Of course, we must always be prepared to answer a call from our respective offices."

"Are you sure, angel?"

"Positive, demon. I won't miss you a bit."

Aziraphale paused for a moment, then asked:

"When will you be back, then?"

"After Christmas."

"I see".

The air hung heavily between them, Aziraphale looking determinedly at his shoes, as the scent of myrrh overtook everything else. Crowley was filled with an irrational urge to close the space between them and devour him, corrupt him, push him over the edge, exploit his vices, _make him fall_ —

— instead, he wrenched himself away from the table, gathering his coat about him and turning toward the door. 

"Oh!"

The angel took a step toward him and Crowley could feel his resolve begin to crumble; a darkness, blacker than night, writhed in his belly as he wanted nothing more than to grab Aziraphale — dear, soft, _sweet_ Aziraphale! — and _taste_ him, to quench the sorrow that seemed to be building in him. 

Aziraphale reached out, tilting his head and smiling so brilliantly that Crowley almost shielded his eyes. "'Til the New Year, Crowley."

Crowley shook his hand, forced his lips to stretch into a smile, forced himself to be just as brilliant as the angel before him. Before he fell, after all, they had embodied the same light.

"Yeah, see you, angel."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a surprise visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to combine this into a chaptered work instead of a series. Sorry, everyone! orz

A hand waved up and down in front of his face, startling Aziraphale out of his reverie. How long had he been staring at the closed door? 

“Mr. Fell? Sir?”

A young human woman smiled shyly up at him, holding out a book. Aziraphale blinked, then put on a winning smile as he led the way to the register. He barely noticed what he was saying, but judging by the woman’s smiles and nods it wasn’t anything too far out of the ordinary. After her, came a young man in a bright red hooded jumper with a stack of books that belied stereotypes about his age. Then after him was another person, and another, and another.

By the time he flipped the sign on the door to “Closed”, the light of day was already fading into a hazy orange. His hand lingered on the sign, eyes scanning the street in expectation before he remembered: Crowley wasn’t coming.

“Happy almost-Christmas, Aziraphale,” came a pleasant, American-accented voice from behind him.

Aziraphale turned around, plastering the same smile from earlier on his face as he greeted his angelic brethren. “Hello, Gabriel. Same to you.”

The archangel peered in ill-concealed curiosity around the bookshop, hands clasped behind his back. The contrast between the two angels was remarkable. Gabriel looked like any run of the mill businessman: neatly trimmed, slicked hair; a smart grey business suit; a generic tie. Aziraphale, on the other hand, looked like an odd leftover from a slightly older time in his cream overcoat and trousers, tan waistcoat, tartan bow tie, and gold fob watch-and-chain.

Gabriel made a small humming noise as he observed Aziraphale, who in turn smiled nervously and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what brings me here, Aziraphale.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “But I thought it might be a bit forward to ask, since you just arrived.”

A smile stretched across Gabriel’s face, though it did not quite reach his lilac eyes. “Heaven was wondering if you might like to come home for Christmas; take a small vacation from your work here on Earth.”

Aziraphale blinked, hesitating for the briefest of moments before replying. “Yes, well, I -- what a lovely invitation, thank you. But, well, you see… ”

Something flashed in the archangel's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You won’t go?” he asked in a tone that made it clear that he already knew the answer.

“If it’s all the same to Heaven,” Aziraphale nodded, “I’d prefer to stay here. I, er, have it on _very_ good authority that the demon Crowley will be up to something this Christmas, outside of England, and I intend to make sure to stop him before Christmas is ruined for some poor, gentle folk.” He looked up at the taller angel serenely, hands folded across his belly. “I trust that Heaven won’t mind if I miss our Lord’s birthday in order to prevent the spread of Hell’s demonic work.”

A muscle in Gabriel’s neck pulsed as the archangel considered his words before replying. When he did, his expression was smooth and blankly pleasant, though Aziraphale was certain he was upset. 

“Of course, Aziraphale. Your mission is of utmost priority to Heaven.”

Gabriel took another look around the bookshop, as if its very contents were an affront to all the angelic hosts. “God bless you, Aziraphale.”

“And you, Gabriel.” Aziraphale blinked, and the archangel was gone.

That left him with only one problem: finding Crowley.

Aziraphale crossed over to his desk and, after only the slightest pause, picked up the receiver and dialled a number that he knew by heart.

_“Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do; do it with style.”_

“Er, yes. Crowley. It’s me.” He paused. Should he identify himself? He decided not to, just in case any one else was listening. “Give me a ring when you can.”

He hung up, staring at his desk as the last rays of light slipped under the horizon. Technically, _technically_ , he hadn’t lied. He did, indeed, have it on good authority that Crowley was off spreading Hell’s chaos this Christmas — the best, considering it came directly from the demon’s mouth. He hadn’t planned on following Crowley without orders, but, well, _technically_ this was within the scope of his mission.

The more he thought about it, the more the scene from earlier kept replaying in his mind:

* * *

_Going to miss me, are we?  
_ _Absolutely not._

* * *

There was something wild and feral in the way Crowley looked at him, his eyes just visible through the dark sunglasses. It lit a fire in Aziraphale’s belly, making him squirm. He had to fill the silence, then, but it seemed like it had made Crowley’s predicament worse – the demon didn’t look at him again before leaving, and Aziraphale wondered if he had succeeded in hurting Crowley’s feelings.

Aziraphale closed up the shop.

* * *

_Are you sure, angel?  
_ _Positive, demon._

* * *

He tugged his overcoat closer around him as a winter wind blew. He wasn’t cold, exactly, but years of habit had him mirroring the humans around him in order to blend in. Lost in his thoughts, he walked through SoHo, oblivious to the crunch of fresh snow under his feet or the blur of Christmas cheer around him.

* * *

" _I won’t miss you a bit.”_

* * *

His breath hitched as a dull throb echoed in his chest. Aziraphale clutched his shirt, feeling miserable both inside and out as he allowed the cold to affect him. It was only fitting for the way he felt.

“OI! In or out, mate?”

Aziraphale looked up, bewildered. A man was looking at him with mild irritation, holding open a door to an invitingly warm restaurant. For a moment, he could hear Crowley’s voice in his head.

_Tempt you to dinner?_

Immediately, he shook his head, both in rejection of the restaurant and to banish the demon’s voice from his mind. The man looked at him oddly, before shrugging and walking into the restaurant himself. “Suit yourself.”

As night grew, the angel found himself in a familiar park, sitting on a familiar bench as he watched snow fall into the nearby lake.

How long he stayed there, he had no idea.

Eventually, it became so dark he could barely see his hand with his body’s normal vision save by the glow from a nearby streetlamp. Brushing the snow off his coat, he made his way back to the bookshop, half-expecting to see a tell-tale blinking light on his answerphone.

But the bookshop was as dark as he left it.

His hand found the light switch, even though he didn’t need it. He was chilled through to the bone, and it felt like an appropriate penance of sorts for what was definitely _not_ guilt gnawing away at him. Definitely, definitely _not_ guilt.

It wasn’t until he settled at his desk with a mug of much-too-hot cocoa that he saw a scrap of paper on his desk, a single word scribbled across in a familiar thin scrawl:

 _Jerusalem_.

Aziraphale smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley arrives in Jerusalem.

He didn’t immediately go up in flames; that was a good sign. The plane touched down, bouncing a few times before taxiing to a stop at the gate. Of course, he could have just transported himself to Jerusalem, but where was the fun in that? Like the Bentley, it was about doing it with style and aplomb. First class was definitely the way to travel.

Checking his watch, Crowley made his way through Ben Gurion airport, dutifully going through customs while causing a little mayhem with slightly-harder-to-find wallets — after he went through, of course. No need to hold himself up in the process.

It was a lot colder than he expected, though it affected him little. Briefly, he contemplated picking up a taxi but decided against it, opting instead to bring the Bentley to him (with updated plates, of course).

The Waldorf Astoria Jerusalem was _quite_ nice, and the Palace Suite was quite to his tastes. Immediately, he hooked the _Do Not Disturb_ sign over his door handle and flipped on the television, cycling through channels until he found the local news. He frowned. There wasn’t much need for him to cause additional strife, but he’d need to do _something_ to satisfy Beelzebub and the rest. Waving a hand, he conjured up a bottle of Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru and a wine glass.

He was just about to pour himself a drink when someone knocked on the door. 

“It says, ‘do not disturb’,” he called out, irritated. 

“I am very sorry,” came the response in thickly accented English, “but there is a gentleman at the front desk demanding to speak with you.”

Crowley wrenched open the door. “You couldn’t have call—” the exasperated question evaporated as he took in the porter’s glazed-over expression. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Who was it this time?

“Crowley.”

He’d know that voice anywhere, mangling the pronunciation of his name so it sounded more like the original: _Crawly_. Arranging his expression into one of carefree amusement, he turned toward the voice with an easy-going grin.

The Duke of Hell looked him over with obvious distaste, black eyes glittering with ill-concealed malice. “All hail Satan,” he intoned, waiting for Crowley’s answering response.

“Hastur! How _are_ you doing?”

The other demon glared at him. “You surround yourself with humans again.” Hastur’s voice dripped with contempt, a maggot making its way across his face.

Crowley shrugged. “Why be uncomfortable?” He leaned against the door jamb casually, crossing his arms against his chest. “Surely the Duke of Hell wouldn’t object against a demon partaking in hedonistic pleasures, even if they are human-made?”

Hastur narrowed his eyes, but chose to ignore Crowley’s question. “We must recount the Deeds of the Day.”

“Ah.” Crowley straightened, put on his most sombre face. “Of course. The Deeds.”

“I have tempted a diplomat,” Hastur continued, his voice soft but filled with pride. “As she sat at a coffee shop, reading an article about the latest casualties in the Middle East, I put Doubt into her mind. She would have been a saint, but in five years we shall have her.”

“Well done,” Crowley replied. 

Hastur looked at him expectantly.

“Oh, yeah, wait ‘til you hear. So, I was at the airport, right, and those lines are _ridiculously_ long — I don’t know if you’ve ever travelled in an airplane, Hastur, but everyone is just miserable when flying — and in the line for customs I hid the wallets of everyone in line into the deepest recesses of their carry-ons.”

Hastur stared at him, jaw slack; another maggot crawled out of his mouth and into the recesses of his shirt. When the Duke of Hell spoke again, it was with a long-suffering sigh.

“And how has _that_ secured souls for our master?”

“Well—”

Hastur held up a hand and shook his head. “No,” he amended. “Nevermind.”

Crowley grinned; a small victory.

“I have been charged to inform you the angel Aziraphale is on the move. We have information that he was last seen with the archangel Gabriel before departing from the United Kingdom, and we suspect he has somehow heard of our plans and is making his way here.”

“Is he now,” Crowley murmured, drawing his brows together with just the appropriate amount of gravitas.

Nodding, Hastur turned to go. “Watch yourself, Crowley.”

Crowley couldn’t tell if that was a warning or a threat.

Belatedly, he realised that Hastur left the porter with him, still staring blankly at the wall. He sighed, then leaned in to murmur into the young man’s ear. “You never saw the strange pale man with awful hair; you’ve come up to this floor, delivered someone’s bags, and are now heading back downstairs to finish the rest of your shift.”

The porter said nothing in response, but dutifully turned and marched away the moment Crowley snapped his fingers.

Back in his room, the demon couldn’t contain his glee. Aziraphale had decided to follow him, then! Crowley had just been his way out — literally opening his front door — when he heard Aziraphale’s message on his answerphone. He’d stopped by the bookshop, but it had been closed and Aziraphale nowhere in sight. Locked doors weren’t a hindrance, of course, so he simply willed himself inside and left a quick note.

He really wished Aziraphale would get a cell phone.

Finally pouring himself a glass of wine, Crowley draped himself across the couch and absently scrolled through an exotic plants website. A few hours had gone by when he sat up straight, sniffing the air.

 _Aziraphale_. He’d know that scent anywhere. He must have hopped on the next plane as soon as he got Crowley’s note. He grinned so widely his cheeks hurt; the two of them were more alike in tastes than the angel cared to admit. Crowley lept off the couch and miracled some nicer clothes onto himself before transporting himself to the angel’s location.

“Well,” he drawled, spotting a familiar tan overcoat and shock of blonde hair. “What’s a nice angel like you doing in a place like this.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said his name with such a joyous note he couldn’t help but shiver. “You know, I was just wondering how I was going to find you.”

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous, angel. You could use your powers, you know.”

He was about to say something else, but the words died on his lips as he watched Aziraphale give him a once-over, blue eyes lingering on his slightly unbuttoned top for a while before moving leisurely downward. “Oh, good _Lord_ ,” Aziraphale murmured, licking his lower lip, and Crowley nearly collapsed. He wasn’t sure if the angel knew he said it out loud, but there was no way he was about to call his attention to it. Crowley felt his breath hitch, his neck growing hot as he pretended not to notice Aziraphale’s stare. Eventually, he cleared his throat and remarked something inane about the weather.

Aziraphale blinked and seemed to shake himself out of a trance, looking down at his own clothes with a frown. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “Flying does do a number on one’s attire.”

“Mm.” Not trusting himself to speak, Crowley waved his hand and gave Aziraphale’s clothes a just-pressed look. He was rewarded tenfold when the angel beamed at him.

The two of them made their way through the airport, bypassing customs (though Crowley did wiggle his fingers a bit at the line to hide more wallets), Aziraphale chattering all the way. Crowley was only half listening, lost in the pleasure of the sound of the angel’s voice. Every so often, Aziraphale would glance at him, smile and squinch his nose just a bit, and it was everything Crowley could do to stay standing.

“So, where are you staying, my dear?”

“Hm? Oh,” Crowley cleared his throat again as he marshalled his thoughts. “At the Waldorf Astoria.”

“ _Really?_ ” Aziraphale clapped his hands together like an excited schoolboy and Crowley felt a thrill of actual, physical pain. “How lovely, I’ve heard that the decor as well as the food are absolutely delectable.”

“The design is pretty classy,” Crowley agreed as he opened the passenger door to the Bentley, conveniently switched to be on the right side to match the country’s driving conventions. Aziraphale slid into the car, eyes widening with disbelief.

“You mean, you haven’t eaten yet?”

Crowley shook his head as he shut the door, then got into the car himself. “Nah,” he replied, driving away from the terminal. “I only got here a few hours ago and I’ve been relaxing in my suite.” He left out Hastur’s visit. Aziraphale didn’t tell him of every archangel’s coming and going, Crowley reasoned to himself, so there was no need, especially since it would only cast a pall over Aziraphale’s excitement.

The half-hour drive seemed to go by quickly, Aziraphale regaling him with a story about a rare book he’d heard about through his contacts, detailing its history from conception to publication.

When they pulled up to the hotel, Crowley flashed a grin at the angel. “Tempt you to lunch?”

“Temptation accomplished!” Aziraphale grinned back, doing a little upper body jig that left Crowley weak; he rested his head on the steering wheel, trying to regain his composure.

“My dear, are you quite all right?” Aziraphale leaned in closer.

 _Too close!_

Crowley sprang back, practically ripping the driver’s side door off its hinges as he laughed it off (or tried to, at any rate).

“Come on, angel, let’s head in.”

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him as he opened the passenger door, walking jauntily to the hotel’s entrance. Crowley smiled and shook his head. _That angel will be the death of me._

He was just about to follow Aziraphale inside when an unpleasant chill crept down his spine. Someone was watching him. Hastur? Crowley stood up straight, scanning the bustling crowd with inhuman precision. There— no, not Hastur.

_Agares._ 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _1 Agares, a demon described in some demonological grimoires as an old man who, amongst other things, stops and retrieves runaway persons._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's worries.

Crowley had no business looking quite so… so… _sinful_. It was counterintuitive to being inconspicuous to go around looking as if one stepped off the cover of GQ, hair carelessly tousled, shirt undone just enough to whisper promises of more. Sinful was the only word for it, and yet Crowley's blithe invitation seemed to indicate he was oblivious to the actual temptations he offered Aziraphale beyond a mere meal.

He was relieved for the distraction, then, when he crossed the threshold of the Waldorf Astoria. The interior of the lobby was as elegant as he’d imagined it would be with its vaulted ceiling and modern decorations invoking the traditional aesthetic of ancient Jerusalem. The windows filled the lobby with a flood of natural sunlight, and Aziraphale smiled as he spotted The Palace Restaurant.

"I wonder what sort of delicacies they'll serve," he remarked, turning to look at the demon and instead being met by empty air. Aziraphale blinked in surprise, looking from side to side. "Crowley?"

He turned back toward the entrance; through the glass doors, he saw Crowley standing just outside, spine ramrod straight, as he stared off into the distance. There was something unnerving about it, something that made the hairs on Aziraphale's neck stand on end. Cautiously, he opened the doors, poking his head out just a tad.

"Er, Crowley…?"

He didn't respond. Feeling a lump in his throat, Aziraphale waited by the door, waiting for Crowley to acknowledge him. Eventually, the demons brows furrowed and he looked away from whatever it was, seeming to notice Aziraphale for the first time. A slow grin spread across his face as he made his way to the door, his body slumping down into its normal, languid posture. There was something off about the way Crowley was smiling, all teeth and no warmth.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?" Aziraphale reached out, but Crowley deftly avoided his touch, making a beeline instead for the reception desk with a small gesture to say Aziraphale should wait.

After a few moments and soft words to the person behind the desk, Crowley returned. 

"Let's just get some room service," he said in a would-be casual voice.

Aziraphale nodded. "That sounds lovely," he said brightly.

The elevator ride up was filled with awkward silence, Crowley rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands jammed into his pockets. Aziraphale said nothing, watching with growing unease at Crowley’s fixation on the elevator numbers lighting up floor by floor.

It wasn’t until the door to Crowley's suite was shut and bolted behind them that the demon let out the biggest sigh before sinking into the couch.

Aziraphale knelt down beside him, gently placing a hand on Crowley's knee.

"Crowley?"

Crowley pulled off his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"I'm all right," he said gruffly. "Really."

"Are you sure?" asked Aziraphale, instinctively reaching up to touch Crowley’s face, then thought better of it. "You look... well…"

"It's nothing. Just a little tired."

_We don’t get tired_ , Aziraphale wanted to say. Instead, he nodded. 

"Of course. It was a long flight, after all." 

Crowley smiled, genuinely this time, clearly grateful that he didn't challenge the lie.

Aziraphale settled on the couch next to him, sitting primly as ever. "So, you said something about room service…?"

Crowley managed a chuckle and reached over to the end table, pulling out a laminated menu. "Take your pick."

Two appetisers, three entrees, dessert, and several glasses of wine later, Crowley seemed almost back to his regular self. Aziraphale decided not to press the issue, despite his curiosity mounting, and instead concentrated his efforts on keeping the conversation as light as possible. He talked about everything and nothing, keeping the smile on Crowley’s face.

Still, he didn't miss that every so often Crowley would glance out his window, his lips thinning for the briefest of moments, a sharp, calculating look in his reptilian eyes.

Without thinking, he crossed over to where Crowley stood, resting his hand on the crook of the demon’s arm.

"My dear," Aziraphale said softly, ignoring how Crowley flinched at his touch. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Crowley shook his head, gently extricating himself from Aziraphale’s grasp with a pained expression the angel couldn’t decipher.

Taking the hint, Aziraphale side stepped a pace away from Crowley, staring out the window and resuming his chatterbox commentary on the sights. Jerusalem was a fine city in which to spend the Christmas holidays, and there was no shortage of things to babble inanely about to distract Crowley from whatever was troubling him.

Anything to keep that smile on his face.

He couldn't stay with Crowley all night, of course, so he performed a minor miracle to give himself a reservation to a nearby suite on the same floor. In the safety of his own quarters, Aziraphale let out a sigh. Whatever — or _whom_ ever — Crowley saw outside of the Waldorf Astoria had rattled the demon, something Aziraphale hadn't seen since A.D. 41.

Even then, that had been sorrow, not fear. Crowley was, for the first time in their long history together, actually afraid of something. Or, at least, worried enough that he couldn't brush it off with the same ease as he brushed off walking into a _church_. Aziraphale had come to Jerusalem with every intention of disrupting Crowley’s task (never mind that it served as a convenient escape from returning to Heaven), but whatever this was he instinctively knew was not part of what Crowley had been assigned.

What could it be?

A cup of nighttime cocoa did nothing to soothe his concerns; he switched on the radio, fiddling around with the dial until he came upon a classical music station. Settling in the luxurious bed, Aziraphale opened his latest nighttime literature — _Critique of Pure Reason_ — and tried to push his worry for Crowley out of his mind. After all, they were on opposite sides, even if they had enjoyed a… companionship, of sorts, for the last six thousand years.

In the end, it was a good job he didn't actually need to sleep since it wound up proving elusive. He tossed and turned all night, unable to close his eyes without seeing the flash of white from Crowley's bared teeth. Sunlight had just started seeping through the crack in his bedroom curtains when Aziraphale decided to slip out of bed and get the day started.

He was in the middle of a delicious room-service breakfast (eggs Benedict, sausages, and crêpes) when his door burst open, Crowley strolling in as if nothing had happened.

"He- _llo_ , angel, you're finally up." Crowley pulled up a chair for himself, twirling it backwards and straddling the seat, head resting on the chair back. Aziraphale tutted, helping himself to a bite of crêpe.

"Crêpes? Again?"

"I quite like crêpes, thank you."

Crowley grinned at him, then reached over to pluck the last bite of crêpe off his fork. Aziraphale watched, mouth agape, as the demon popped it into his own mouth.

" _Excuse_ me!" Aziraphale tried his best to sound indignant, but stealing the last bite of his food was so quintessentially _Crowley_ he couldn't help but allow a smile. The demon answered with one of his own, helping himself to the last sausage as well. "You could order your own, you know. Or miracle yourself some."

"Where's the fun in that?" Crowley rejoined. "You should see the look on your face."

Aziraphale snorted in a decidedly most un-angelic way, drawing his plate closer. Crowley laughed at that, before standing from the table and giving his blazer a little tug.

"Going somewhere, my dear?"

"I've got to make some effort, haven't I?" Crowley winked at him, and Aziraphale felt the heat in his cheeks.

"I suppose so." Aziraphale stood too, walking Crowley to the door. "I'm meant to stop you, though."

Crowley stopped in his tracks; Aziraphale turned, tilting his head at the demon's odd look.

"Crowley…?"

"Do it, then."

"What?" Aziraphale took a step back.

"Stop me."

Amber eyes met his, pupils hardly more than slits. Aziraphale stared back, feeling his chest tighten. Crowley was breathing heavily, even though he didn't really need to, his face unreadable. 

"Stop me," Crowley said again, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper.

"I — I don't… " Aziraphale stammered, moving another step back. Crowley moved toward him until Aziraphale felt his back pressed against the cool wood.

"For the love of…" Crowley trailed off, reaching above Aziraphale to brace his weight against the door. " _Stop me_ , angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers to my lovely beta, lywinis.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agares reappears; Crowley makes a break for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few things: one, I've changed the title of this work to something that actually fits the story better (will shelve my Burning Bright / Endless Starlight idea for later) and two, I've bumped up the rating to Mature because the boys decided to get a little saucy.
> 
> uwu thank you for reading~

No one had performed a miracle, but time stood still anyway as Crowley waited for Aziraphale to reply. He hovered over him, leaning against the sturdy suite door for support while trying to appear as comfortable in his own skin (so to speak) as possible. Aziraphale's scent was nearly overwhelming from this distance, old paper, and spun sugar and just the slightest hint of the air after a thunderstorm. The latter, in particular, reminded him of that first time in Eden.

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes wide but otherwise expressionless as he stammered, wringing his hands together, looking like something Victorian England accidentally left behind. His heart softened; Crowley started to reach out — to touch him? hold him? he wasn't quite sure — but Aziraphale cast his eyes down and turned away.

Crowley froze, feeling rather as if his whole body had been plunged into the iciest of waters.

"Of course I'll stop you," Aziraphale replied, his tone light. "That's what I'm here for."

It had been too much to hope for, really, that he had followed Crowley because he simply _wanted_ to rather than as a mandate from Heaven. He had wrestled with himself, had thought after Aziraphale's overtures the night before, that he….

The rejection stung more than it should have, more than it did in the '70s. What was it, again?

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Right.

"Of course," he echoed. "Unstoppable force versus immovable object, round 358694958."

The joke fell flat, not in small part because of the hollowness in his voice.

They stood in silence, time — the bastard — still refusing to move. The decadence of the Waldorf Astoria, once bright and beautiful much like a certain principality, was suddenly oppressive and stifling. Crowley took a step back, jamming one hand into a too-small pocket on his trousers and pushing his sunglasses up with the other. 

He needed to get out of there, and fast; he couldn't breathe, so it was convenient that he didn't actually need to.

"I'll be off, then." 

Aziraphale nodded, seemingly oblivious to the change in his demeanour, still staring at a point somewhere to Crowley's right. He almost turned to see what was so fascinating, but he knew there'd be nothing there.

Which was the point, he supposed.

He reached for the door handle, feeling a stab of pain as Aziraphale shifted to the side, obviously avoiding contact. It was a far cry from the night before, where he kept reaching out despite Crowley doing his best to avoid it.

Oh. Maybe that was the problem.

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his tongue when all he saw was the back of Aziraphale's head. No, he'd overstepped his bounds, and now the angel couldn't even look at him.

He wrenched open the door and stalked out, walking as quickly as he could without running like an effing loon through the hotel lobby, the scent of myrrh following him all the way out.

* * *

The streets of Jerusalem were hectic even in the early morning. The Bentley dutifully rolled along, blaring out _The Best of Queen_ as per usual; Crowley barely heard it, scanning around him for some opportunity to take credit for evil deeds with as little effort as possible. The desire to cause havoc had evaporated the second Aziraphale had looked away from him, and Crowley wanted to get out of Jerusalem as fast as possible. At least in England he'd have to make a conscious decision to go see Aziraphale, instead of having to walk past his door just to get from point A to point B.

Eventually, a semi open-air market caught his eye. Miracling himself a convenient parking spot, Crowley sauntered through the market trying to find something, doing his best to tuck Aziraphale's reaction away to deal with it later.

Or never, whichever.

The marketplace was a cacophony of voices, each struggling to be heard above the din as they haggled for the basic necessities of life. It was the perfect place to find something to turn into a minor inconvenience with world-reaching consequences, and Crowley threw himself into the search.

He had just side-stepped a rather nasty puddle near a fishmonger when the hairs on his neck stood on end.

_Shit. Not **now**!_

The crowd parted briefly, and Agares' withered face stared at him unblinkingly.

Involuntarily, Crowley took a step back. He could deal with Hastur, who for all of his dislike and distrust of Crowley was only really interested in making sure his desires and the mandates of Hell were followed to the best of his abilities. A passage from the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ rung in his ears:

_...he fetcheth backe all such as runne awaie…_

No, _this_ Duke was, for all intents and purposes, Hell's retrieval squad. If Agares was here, that could only mean one thing.

He'd been rumbled.

Crowley turned and bolted, knowing it was futile but making a go of it anyway. He ignored the indignant shouts of the people he bowled into and shoved aside as he made a break for the Bentley. He flung himself into the driver's seat, threw the car into gear, and peeled out onto the road.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit shit shitshitshitshitshitshitshit._

"Call the Waldorf Astoria, Jerusalem," he practically shouted.

"Calling Waldorf Astoria, Jerusalem," came the infuriatingly calm voice from the Bentley's speakers.

"Hello, Waldorf Astor—"

"This is Anthony J. Crowley," he tried to bite back the rush of words, to speak in an even and calm voice. "I need to be connected to Mr. Ezra Fell."

"Room number, sir?"

_Shit!_

"Look, I don't remember. Just look him up."

There was a pause as the command took hold, only the gentle tapping of a keyboard filling the silence. 

"One moment, please."

Crowley drummed his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently, haphazardly merging onto the highway leading out of Jerusalem and into the desert.

"I'm sorry, sir," the receptionist said placidly. "Mr. Fell doesn't appear to be in his room."

_SHIT!_

"May I take a message?"

"No — wait, yeah, just tell him to call me."

"Very well, sir. Have a pleasant—"

He hung up before they could finish, mind racing with all the possible places Aziraphale could be. He tasted the air; the angel's scent was still local, but whether because he was in a frazzled state of mind or because Aziraphale willed it (he suspected the latter), he couldn't pinpoint exactly where.

The sights blurred as he sped past, cutting off drivers left and right and causing more than a little chaos in his wake to the symphony of blaring car horns and Freddie Mercury's dulcet tones.

 _Keep yourself alive,_ Freddie sang. _Yeah, keep yourself alive._

Eventually he spotted what seemed to be an appropriate exit. Carelessly, he crossed over two lanes, driving faster and faster and faster, not stopping until the city was a pinprick on the horizon behind him.

Crowley stepped out of the Bentley, feeling a pang in his chest as he surveyed the desert around him, half expecting to hear a flutter of wings and see Aziraphale appear by his side. He turned, despite himself.

"That was really stupid, Crawly."

He forced a smile to his face. "Agares! It's been yonks, innit. And it's 'Crowley' now."

Agares leaned on his walking stick, black eyes staring at him from under a prominent brow. Crowley had never understood why Agares chose to appear as a nearly-decrepit old man; it wasn't the strangest choice a demon had made in vessels, but it seemed like such a human appearance — unlike Hastur's frog or the maggots still manifesting on his person, or Beezlebub's flies — and much more in line with something that Crowley might have chosen.

"Stupid," Agares repeated. "You know who I am."

"Well," Crowley shrugged, "it was worth a shot."

"It was not."

Agares fell silent, the glint of enjoyment in his eyes becoming more and more apparent as Crowley's anxiety and discomfort grew until he was unable to bear it a moment longer.

"Look, what is it?" he asked. He was unnaturally cold, standing this close to Agares. "Only, I've got some chaos to sow, misdeeds to encourage; you know, just general mischief and mayhem on Christmas Eve."

No response.

"I'm _not_ going back," Crowley insisted.

Instead of answering, Agares sat on a nearby boulder, looking toward Jerusalem.

"Do you remember when we fell, Crowley?"

"We-e-ell…" He leaned against the bonnet of the Bentley, pursing his lips and tilting his head in mild disagreement. "I just sort of… sauntered vaguely downwards, actually."

Agares ignored him.

"It was terrible. Horrific, to be ripped from Her presence."

Crowley snapped his mouth shut, unable to retort. He still smarted from the injustice of it all, being virtually catapulted out of Heaven, out of Her light, all for asking questions. Questions! It was why he actually nudged those two to have a bit of that fruit, so they could ask their own questions.

He had no way of knowing that day would also change his life, such as it was, perhaps even more drastically than being locked out of Heaven.

"Of course," Agares continued, "there are those of our sort that have forgotten what Her warmth was like. What Her love did, and enabled us to do. Like Hastur, for instance. Or Ligur."

 _Curious he didn't mention Beezlebub_ , Crowley thought, studying the ancient-looking demon with growing interest. He had expected to be carted off to Hell posthaste without so much as a how-do-you-do, not a chinwag about old times.

"Do _you_ remember, Crowley?" Agares asked, his voice a whisper carried on the wind. "Do you remember what it's like to love and be loved?"

Crowley snorted.

"Of course n—"

He broke off abruptly, realising he was about to lie. Not that he had a problem with lying, of course, but rather he was astounded about the fact that it would have actually _been_ a lie. Crêpes in France. _Hamlet_. A stack of books in a blown-up church, his feet blistered for at least a week. A terrifying tartan thermos full of holy water. Dinner at the Ritz.

So many dinners at the Ritz.

It wasn't until he heard the metallic screech of ripping metal that he realised he'd been clenching his hands into fists; a drop of black blood fell to the ground, immediately swallowed by the sand. Hastily, Crowley miracled the Bentley better with a murmured apology to his wonderful car.

Agares pretended not to notice, his eyes still trained on the distant city.

"If I could feel it again," Agares' voice swirled around him, coming from everywhere at once, "I'd never let it go."

Crowley stared at him, not daring to believe.

"What are you—"

The wrinkled demon stood and started to hobble away, brushing the dirt off the seat of his trousers.

" _Oi_ , Agares! What—"

Agares stopped, hardly giving a glance backward.

"Stop running, Crowley."

The wind kicked up, blowing sand into Crowley's eyes; when the dust settled, Agares was gone, no indication that he'd ever been there.

Crowley yanked the car door open and slammed his keys into the ignition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers to [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis) for beta reading! (psst check out their stuff too).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale sets out to explore Jerusalem but comes across a worrisome scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of the last three chapters. Wheee~  
> Cheers to [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) for beta-ing.

The slammed door seemed to echo through the suite; Aziraphale winced, a squirmy feeling settling somewhere deep in his belly. He knew — _knew —_ Crowley was upset, but couldn't fathom why.

Or, to be more accurate, didn't dare to hope that he knew.

The demon had caught him wrong-footed, something he seemed to do with increasing frequency as of late. It made Aziraphale feel things, imagine things, _want_ things he had no business feeling, imagining, or wanting. When Crowley had looked at him, amber eyes just barely visible behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale imagined a wildness, a feral hunger; imagined the demon wanted nothing more than to devour him whole.

But it was impossible, of course.

It was impossible that Crowley had started to feel what he'd been fighting against feeling for the last few thousand years. Maybe longer, if he was honest with himself, but he didn't realise for the longest time. When he did, he had been haunted with the question: when did it happen?

Was it in London, during the war, when Crowley braved the sanctified grounds of a church just to save him from another discorporation and performed a miracle to keep his books intact?

Or was it in Rome, when he appeared in a mish-mash of clothing that made no sense, a golden crown of laurels upon his head?

Maybe it was at the Globe, looking to Crowley and just Knowing, as angels Know, that one look would convince the demon to make _Hamlet_ a roaring success?

At Golgotha, watching his brow furrow and sadness fill his eyes as he watched an innocent man die?

Or maybe… just maybe… it started in Eden, as everything else seemed to, when Crowley dipped toward him in absolute certainty he'd be sheltered from the incoming storm.

Aziraphale sighed. He didn't know when it happened, but the _when_ didn't matter as much as the fact that these feelings existed in the first place.

And now Crowley was gone to goodness-knows-where, leaving him alone in a suite that suddenly felt much too large, wrestling with emotions he had no business, no **_right_ ** to feel.

He stood there, still staring at a spot on the wall, for a long time. He wanted desperately to put a name to what he was feeling, but at the same time was terrified of speaking it into existence, as if it was the word itself that held all the power. 

"It doesn't _matter_!" he insisted to an empty room.

The silence mocked him. _Are you sure about that_? it seemed to ask. _Are you really, really sure_?

* * *

It was nearly noon before Aziraphale managed to collect his thoughts together. There was no sense hanging around his suite on one of the holiest of days when all of Jerusalem was just outside, so he slipped on his lovely tan overcoat and headed out. 

The door had just clicked shut when he heard the telephone ring; briefly, he contemplated going back inside to answer, but decided against it.

If it was important, they'd leave a message.

* * *

He found himself at Via Dolorosa, of all places, retracing steps he took nearly two thousand years prior. His fingers trailed along rough brick as he made his way slowly down the winding road. He looked across the path seeing not tourists, but a bleeding man struggling with a wooden cross two and a half times his height. The sounds of the street faded, replaced with shouts and jeers, curses and wailing. 

_What was it he said that got everyone upset?_

_"Be kind to each other."_

_Oh, yeah. That'll do it._

Aziraphale blinked, the present coming back into clear focus. Was it just the haze of time, or had there been something more to Crowley's matter-of-fact words? He had seen the sadness in his expression, but sadness wasn't quite the same as that — that _thing_. The L-word. The one he couldn't say, _wouldn't_ say, because it would make reality all the more crushing.

And yet, in retrospect he could have sworn his words had been tinged with _it_ , as he watched a young man to whom he showed "all the kingdoms of the world" fade slowly, agonisingly away.

But demons weren't capable of that, so it was _impossible_.

Wasn't it?

He stopped just outside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, somehow unable to bring himself to step inside. _Crowley won't be there_ , a little voice told him even as he tried to bat it away. That was not the reason he wasn't going in.

Absolutely not.

Nope.

Not at all.

No sir.

Instead, he turned around and marched back toward the direction of everyday sounds and the smell of delicious street food.

The marketplace was in a tizzy when he arrived, a fishmonger shouting about a wild man who pushed his customers as he ran from nothing like the dogs of Hell were nipping at his heels. People were standing around in tight groups, buzzing angrily about the weird man with unnaturally red hair who had left behind tyre marks on the street that spontaneously caught fire.

Aziraphale felt a pinprick of anxiety.

"Excuse me? I say, my good fellow?"

The fishmonger looked up, looking him over and curling his lip with distaste. 

"Yes?" he asked gruffly in heavily accented English. "What is it?"

"This man, are you sure he was running from _nothing_?"

"That is what I said! That is what I have _been_ saying for an hour. Do you call me a liar?"

Aziraphale took a step back. "Oh good gracious me, of course not. I'm so sorry."

He rushed out into the street, thinking to follow the tyre tracks, but they disappeared along with the flames halfway down the main road. He had no idea how Crowley always found him when they were apart — other than happenstance — so he just stood there in the side of the road, staring in bewilderment at the end of the tyre marks and dragging his hands down the sides of his face.

"I've never seen anything like it," came a voice from somewhere around his elbow.

Aziraphale started and glanced down. A wizened old man had stopped next to him, looking very nearly ancient and leaning heavily on his walking stick as he adjusted his seemingly-new sunglasses, which were in sharp contrast to his ratty clothes.

"Really," Aziraphale responded, with just a hint of irritation.

"The strangest thing, for sure."

"Mm."

"He was making such a fuss, running from _absolutely nothing_." The old man smiled to himself, as if enjoying a great joke. "Then he just hopped in his car — a great black thing it were! — shouting something about calling the Waldorf Astoria—"

" _What_?"

"The Waldorf Astoria. Then he—"

"ThankyouverymuchsirIreallymustdash."

The words came out in a rush, mushed up together as Aziraphale turned on his heel and hurried off (was that old man laughing at him?), trying to find the most inconspicuous spot where he could miracle himself back to the hotel. He found one, though the inconspicuousness of it could be argued (there were, by his count, two women nattering, six children playing some form of ball-kicking game, and two mice peeking out from under a box), and pushed through the double glass doors of the Waldorf Astoria in no time at all.

"Oh, Mr. Fell! Mr. Fell!"

A receptionist waved her arm frantically; Aziraphale pretended not to hear, intent on making a beeline for his suite, but she was tenacious and ran up to him instead.

"Oh, Mr. Fell, thanks for stopping," she said in a way that made it known she was not thanking him at all. "A Mr. Crowley left a message with the front desk, asking for you to call him back."

The smile that stretched across his face was tight. He had suspected as much since that old man mentioned the Waldorf Astoria, and this girl, although well intentioned, just delayed him by that much more. An hour had already passed; what if he was too late?

"Thank you," he replied, his voice coming out clipped as he hastened away, miracling an empty elevator down immediately. Unfortunately, other people hopped onto the elevator with him and he had to stand there with growing impatience as it meandered slowly upward with muzak (a Crowley invention, obviously) pumping through the speakers.

Finally, _finally_ , it reached his floor and he tore out of the elevator straight to his suite, miracling the door open instead of spending precious seconds fumbling with his key card.

He flung his coat on the coat rack without even looking, hooking it perfectly with the precision possessed only by a supernatural being. Aziraphale grabbed the phone and had just started dialling when the suite doors slammed open.

"Angel!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley speaks his Truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done!  
> Love to [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) for beta-ing (check out their work! uwu)

Aziraphale stared at him like a deer in the headlights, finger poised over the keypad, his mouth forming a little _o_ of surprise.

"Crowley!"

Was it just him, or did that sound like relief? Closing the door behind him, Crowley turned to face Aziraphale.

"Angel, I—"

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale interrupted him, hanging up the phone and rushing over.

Crowley very nearly took a step back. _What…?_

"I'm fine," he said, looking Aziraphale up and down. It must have been his imagination, but the angel looked breathless as he clasped his hands together and leaned in closer, eyes wide with what he could have sworn to be concern.

Crowley covered the lower half of his face with his hand, index finger resting on his nose, as he felt heat creep into his cheeks.

"What's gotten into _you_?"

"I got your message."

"What, about calling me back? Angel, it's just a missed call—"

"I was in the marketplace, Crowley. Just now."

Crowley froze, his sunglasses slipping off of his nose just a little.

"O-oh, I see."

He tried for nonchalant as he jammed his hands (well, fingers, really) into his exceedingly tiny trouser pockets, but a knot of worry suddenly formed in his belly. Had he seen Hastur? 

"All the people were talking about it," the angel continued, "about a wild man running from nothing, and when I heard about a great big black car and someone shouting about calling the Waldorf Astoria, well…."

Aziraphale trailed off, his eyes searching Crowley so intensely that the knot of worry was replaced by a knot of quite a different emotion all together.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked again. "Is everything tickety-boo?"

Now Crowley _did_ step back, head turned, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. 

"My dear?" Aziraphale looked at him in alarm.

Crowley waved his free hand, doubling over as laughter overtook him, bubbling out uncontrollably. The angel glared, placing his hands on his hips. If his wings had been showing, Crowley thought, they'd be ruffled in indignation.

" _Really!_ " Aziraphale exclaimed, puffing out his cheeks. "Here I am, worrying you've been discorporated, or _worse_ — I rushed back here — miracled myself over, even — didn't get a _chance_ to sample the street food — _Anthony J. Crowley will you stop FUCKING laughing?!_ "

He just laughed harder, moving just past Aziraphale so he could rest his weight on the coffee table. This angel — this glorious, wonderful, _ridiculous_ angel — would be the death of him. His constant use of outdated slang, the expressions he made when he was angry, the way he stood there, in his obsolete outfit, banging on about food even at the height of concern… it was just too much. Crowley took off his glasses and set them on the table, wiping away the tears of mirth streaming from his eyes.

Hell help him, but he loved Aziraphale.

He loved him so much he at times quite thought he'd burst. Oh, this angel… just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

 _And loving_.

"Now really, my dear boy," Aziraphale reproached him once his laughter subsided. "I really was quite concerned!"

Aziraphale reached out to touch his arm as Crowley turned to face him, but he captured the angel's hand in both of his.

"Crowley?"

"You're ridiculous," he said tenderly, bringing the angel's hand to his lips.

"W-what are you—"

Aziraphale tugged his hand away, taking a step back. His face was scarlet as he avoided looking at Crowley, hand clasped close to his chest.

Crowley felt himself tense; he couldn't bear it if Aziraphale turned him away. He was his only friend in all the worlds, the only one Crowley could have managed to bear six thousand years on this rock with, the only one who could brighten his dismal prospects with a single smile.

And he was risking it all.

 _Stop running_ , Agares' voice echoed in his head.

 _I have_.

He moved closer to the angel, who kept stepping back until his back was pressed up against the door, echoing their unfortunate confrontation from that morning. This time, though, Crowley intended to see it through to whatever conclusion.

Aziraphale was staring up at him again as he leaned over him, resting his weight against the door once more. Blue eyes, those blessed blue eyes, looked up at him with an ineffable expression as Crowley struggled to find the words that sang in his heart.

"Don't you feel it?" he wound up asking, kicking himself mentally.

"Feel what?" Aziraphale asked, licking his lips. Crowley shut his eyes for a moment to regain his composure.

" _This_ ," Crowley said, opening his eyes and gesturing between them. "This… this pull we seem to have, this connection. It's driving me absolutely batty — don't you feel it?"

He reached up, trailing his fingers down Aziraphale's cheek. The angel bunched in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut, but Crowley could feel him shiver at his touch.

 _Hah._

Not bothering to conceal his grin, he brushed his thumb gently against Aziraphale's cheekbone.

"See," he said softly, "you do."

"I - I'm not sure I understand your meaning, Crowley," Aziraphale protested weakly.

"Don't you?'

Crowley moved closer, barely a hand's breadth away. He dropped his hand from Aziraphale's face, languidly skimming down his arm and slipping to his waist. Aziraphale jerked at the touch, brushing up against a rather a sensitive area; Crowley groaned, hanging his head as he attempted to control himself.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's voice was a whisper.

"Just a tick," he managed to squeeze out.

When he was sure he wasn't about to lose himself then and there, Crowley looked at Aziraphale again, who was waiting for him patiently. 

Crowley's heart, such as it was, skipped a beat.

"You were saying?"

"Right. Yes." He tugged Aziraphale a little closer, hand still resting firmly on his waist. "I think you understand my meaning perfectly well, angel."

"I do not," Aziraphale insisted.

"So you keep saying."

Crowley let go, struggling to articulate what he was feeling.

"Are you telling me you don't feel it?" he demanded. "You don't feel this... this tug to be near each other, don't feel the pressure here —" he put his hand over his chest "— squeezing you so tight you couldn't breathe even if you wanted to?"

He pushed closer, inhaling the familiar scent of parchment and sugar, tinged with something new. What was it? It was surprisingly … dark. He blinked, inhaling again, unable to pinpoint the new scent. Dark and intoxicating, all at once lovely and terrible. There was something almost violent about the way it smelled, very nearly overwhelming his senses. 

The words came to him in a tumble — _Desire. Lust. Want. Need. —_ the knowledge just suddenly an inherent part of him, and for the first time in his existence he didn't hate the experience.

"I know what you smell like," he said, his voice coming out gravelly, thick with his own desire.

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, his mouth moving soundlessly until he managed to murmur out, "You do?"

"I'd be hard pressed not to, after six thousand years." It could have been a joke, if he said it any other time, but now it was nothing but unbridled honesty. The words burned his tongue, as if such uprightness were unbecoming of a demon like himself; he revelled in the pain, knowing each word brought him closer to speaking his Truth.

"That's... good," Aziraphale whispered.

The air grew thick between them; Crowley teetering on the edge of a precipice, struggling to take the final leap. Steeling himself, he cupped Aziraphale's face in his hands, gently, afraid that by doing so he would twist out of his grasp once more and reject him utterly.

But the angel didn't, instead waiting patiently, lips slightly parted as if in anticipation.

"I want you, angel," Crowley finally said, his voice soft and fragile. "All of you, with all of me, if you'll have my wretched self."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🚨🌶 **NSFW WARNING, SUPER SPICY CONTENT AHEAD** 🌶🚨  
> In case you were reading this back when this was rated for general audiences, the content rating has been upped to "Mature" for some spicy hanky-panky. Which, coincidentally, is my first time ever writing such a thing so please be gentle ;;
> 
> This is the last chapter! Thanks for bearing with me and my first chaptered work, even if it was more off the cuff than I might have liked if I had realised what this one-shot was going to turn into. As of this post I'm already working on a follow up work, so keep an eye out if you want!
> 
> As always, much love to [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) for beta-ing, most especially for all the wonderful feedback on pacing and the patience they showed as I reached Peak Thirst over Michael Sheen in the course of writing this fic. (PS, go read their stuff!)

_Wanted him_ , was it?

It wasn't quite what Aziraphale was hoping for, but it was something — Crowley had thrown him a lifeline, a way to get as close to what he yearned for without asking the impossible.

And in some ways, it was easier to justify. If one thought about it, one could argue that Crowley was simply following his nature. If he didn't offer himself up, then who knows what poor, unsuspecting soul out there would succumb instead? Besides, it was just another _little_ Temptation, no? No different from lunch at the Ritz. It's not like it would make him Fall, not when all the others didn't. Or… something.

 _You'd be all right with it, though, if it was him_ , that annoying voice murmured in his head. Aziraphale shooed it away, but couldn't bring himself to disagree; he was tired from all of his mental gymnastics, and he wasn't sure they made sense anyway.

But at the end of it he had come to the conclusion that, as painful as it was, that he loved Crowley.

Loved him and wanted him, in tandem. An impossibility, supposedly, but there it was. It was an ache within him, that made him clutch in desperation to the demon's carnal desire as the nearest substitution, certain that Crowley would never — _could_ never — reciprocate beyond it.

"Hey," came Crowley's voice, so soft, so gentle, his hands still cupping Aziraphale's face so tenderly it made the angel's heart squeeze in pain. "Say something, angel."

_Fuck it._

Wordlessly, Aziraphale threw caution to the wind as he hooked his index finger into one of the loops on Crowley's trousers, tugging him closer; he slipped his other hand under Crowley's shirt, feeling a thrill of satisfaction as the demon gasped and trembled under his touch, his breath coming in shallow pants somewhere above Aziraphale's head.

"Angel—"

"Shhh." He moved his hand further up Crowley's chest, smiling a little as he felt fine hairs under his fingertips.

"Are you sure?" Crowley asked thickly. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Aziraphale looked up, his lips just grazing the demon's chin as he spoke.

"I know."

His lips trailed gently along Crowley's jawbone; he chanced a glance upward and saw Crowley had his eyes closed, the expression on his face a mix of agony and pleasure. On impulse, Aziraphale gave his neck an experimental lick.

Crowley moaned audibly, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. The door behind Aziraphale shook from the demon's efforts. He did it again, slower this time, and a pinch of sudden pain on his shoulder made his eyes water — Crowley had grabbed him, hard, fingernails digging through his waistcoat.

Then Crowley let go, only to grab him by the shirt with both hands and shove him roughly against the door with a loud _bang_.

"Six thousand years," he said raggedly, his face just millimetres away. "Six _fucking_ thousand years I've waited. There's no going back after this, angel."

Aziraphale smiled, slipping his hand out from under Crowley's shirt and cupping the back of the demon's neck instead.

"Go on, then."

With a strangled cry, Crowley dipped his head forward, covering Aziraphale's mouth with his.

Aziraphale pushed back, his lips parting a little more as he answered Crowley, kiss for kiss. The demon's grip on his shirt relaxed; Aziraphale let go of the trouser loop and put his other hand on the small of Crowley's back, pulling him so close that the metal buckle on Crowley's belt dug into Aziraphale's stomach.

After what seemed both an eternity and an instant, they pulled apart. Crowley exhaled, his breath long and shuddering.

"Fucking _hell_."

Aziraphale laughed softly. "I hope that's a good thing."

Wordlessly, Crowley pressed against him, and Aziraphale could feel him growing hard. He chuckled.

"I'll take that as a yes."

With a determination that surprised even him, Aziraphale pushed Crowley back, guiding him to the couch. Crowley sank into the cushions, legs trembling, as Aziraphale straddled him.

"Unbutton your top, my dear," Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley did as he was told, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale's face.

"Good boy." 

Aziraphale smiled, caressing his cheek tenderly. Crowley licked his lips in anticipation, grasping at the fabric of Aziraphale's trousers. The angel laughed good-naturedly as he ran his fingers through Crowley's hair, letting his nails scrape gently against the scalp. Under him, the demon twisted in obvious pleasure, his mouth parting slightly.

"Oh?"

Aziraphale did it again, leaning down for a kiss, which was eagerly reciprocated. He ran both hands down Crowley's now-bare chest, nails grazing skin lightly, and stopping at his belt buckle.

"Are you sure?" the demon asked a second time. "We can stop."

Aziraphale traced his finger against the outline of Crowley's cock, straining against the soft fabric of his trousers.

Crowley hissed, his back arching involuntarily as his head dropped back, exposing his neck. Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, no small measure of triumph roaring in his chest as Crowley left himself vulnerable. He leaned in, nipping at the thin skin and inhaling the heady scent of leather, smoke, and earth. 

"Second thoughts, demon?" The words came out barely above a whisper. Crowley jerked against him, rubbing his chin against the side of Aziraphale's jaw with a moan as Aziraphale nipped his neck again. "Like you said, there's no going back."

Aziraphale undid the buckle, then the zip, working the trousers past Crowley's hips and onto the floor. Gently but firmly, he took hold of Crowley's shaft, working his hand rhythmically as the demon bucked; the little give the couch fabric had found its way between Crowley's fingers as his hands balled into fists. Aziraphale bit him again, harder this time, revelling in the gasp it elicited.

" _Shit—_!"

Aziraphale stopped abruptly, leaving Crowley bewildered and gasping.

"Oh no you don't," he murmured with a smile that could only be described as 'impish'.

"You _bastard_ ," Crowley breathed, but there was no venom in his voice.

Still smiling, Aziraphale pulled off his bow tie and shirt, motioning for Crowley to do the same. He unbuckled his belt, drinking in Crowley's intense stare from under his lashes. Deliberately, he took his time pulling his trousers and undergarments off, watching with pleasure as the demon began breathing harder, pupils dilated as he squirmed in anticipation. Aziraphale touched himself, let himself moan a little, feeling his heart pound with excitement as Crowley made little thrusts underneath him in response. 

His first impulse was to lift up Crowley's hips and bury himself deep, thrusting hard until they both found release. But, he also knew that such delights — especially the first time they were experienced — should be savoured, every last drop of pleasure drawn out until they had very nearly gone mad. The last portion, the last bite, should always be the very best of the meal.

He was so hard it was almost painful; Crowley reached for him, but Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, pinning it against the back of the couch. Their eyes met in silent communication, and after a few moments he let go. With only a little difficulty he extricated himself from Crowley's lap, sitting on the couch next to him. Without being told, Crowley slid off and dropped to his knees before Aziraphale, taking his length in both hands.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply and gave him an encouraging nod; Crowley lowered his mouth onto Aziraphale's cock, using both his tongue and his hands deftly.

He placed his hand on the crown of Crowley's head, gripping hair tightly when Crowley slid his mouth all the way to the base.

"That's it," he said softly, "that's good."

Crowley moved back up, concentrating his attention on the head, alternating between fast and slow before licking the underside of his shaft from base to tip. It was Aziraphale's turn to hiss when Crowley swirled his tongue around the tip, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from losing control. 

The pain cleared his head; he noticed Crowley's arm moving up and down, and Aziraphale hazarded a guess as to what he was doing.

"Now, now," he chided, using his leg to nudge the arm away. "None of that."

Crowley obeyed, but looked up at him with a pained expression, cock still in his mouth as he murmured a feeble protest. Aziraphale felt his hips jerk at the vibration, and he gripped Crowley's hair a little tighter as he thrust, unable to help himself. He took hold of Crowley's hair with his other hand too as he fucked the demon's mouth with barely restrained fervour. Crowley took it in stride, even leaning in further and supporting his weight on his elbows as he let Aziraphale take command.

He felt a pressure building and he tensed, whispering the demon's name with reverence. Crowley kept his head still, sliding his mouth back down to the base as Aziraphale came; six thousand years of waiting and he hadn't ever imagined or experienced anything as divine.

They stayed like that for a while, Aziraphale's breath coming in shallow gasps. Then he gently pulled back, Crowley swallowing and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His eyes asked a question, and Aziraphale leaned over to place a gentle kiss on his lips in answer.

"Brilliant, my dear."

Aziraphale helped him to his feet, on a whim kissing the tip of his still rock-hard cock as Crowley stood. The demon let out a string of unintelligible blessings as Aziraphale laughed, not unkindly.

"So brilliant," he repeated, also standing.

The air between them was electric; he reached toward Crowley, wrapping his arm around the demon's waist and pulling him close for a deep kiss. He smelled delicious, and Aziraphale kissed him over and over again: on the mouth, the jaw, the neck. 

Crowley shook, whimpering ever so softly as Aziraphale slipped his hand further down his backside. Lubricant manifested on Aziraphale's fingers before he slowly slipped them inside.

With a shuddering gasp, Crowley pressed tighter against Aziraphale as his legs started to give way, clutching tightly at the angel's shoulders for support. He buried his face into Aziraphale's neck, murmuring nonsense into his skin as he rubbed himself against Aziraphale, desperately seeking relief.

Before he found it, Aziraphale stopped, nibbling Crowley's earlobe before pulling away. He was hard again, and the expression on Crowley's face told him the demon was nearing his limit.

"Come on, then."

He took Crowley's hand, half-leading, half-carrying him into the bedroom; there were just some things that still needed to be done _properly_.

The room was awash in moonlight, the curtains drawn back from earlier in the afternoon. Hotel housekeeping had replaced the flowers on the nightstand with a fresh batch filled with baby's breath and rosebuds, and had turned down the covers on the luxurious bed so invitingly.

Crowley began to slip under the covers, but Aziraphale hugged him from behind, kissing and biting his neck as he reached down. Crowley sunk down into the mattress with a gasp, bunching the sheets tightly between his fingers. Aziraphale covered his back in kisses, not missing the way desire had mingled with Crowley's natural scent.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale murmured, his lips against Crowley's skin. "My dear Crowley."

Pulling back, he pressed his hand against Crowley's hip, urging him to turn around. He did, and Aziraphale helped him settle on the bed. As the duvet surrounded him like a pillow of clouds, Aziraphale was struck with a realisation, staring down at Crowley who lay there, eyes bright and the sweetest smile on his lips:

_How ethereal he must have looked before he fell._

Crowley moved to stroke himself, then paused, looking to Aziraphale for an answer. When the angel nodded, he propped himself up on one elbow as he moved his hand, watching in anticipation.

Aziraphale ran his fingers down Crowley's thigh, taking in how his toes curled at his touch, how his breath hitched every time their skin made contact. He leaned forward, trailing kisses down Crowley's chest, lingering on the insides of his thighs before sliding his mouth down in sync with the demon's strokes. Crowley cried out, lifting slightly off the bed as his feet scrambled for a foothold against the silky sheets. 

He drew himself up slowly, delighting in Crowley crying out again, his voice somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Licking his lips, Aziraphale miracled up more lubrication, first covering himself; then, readying Crowley, who twisted and turned under the intensity of his touch.

Pushing Crowley's legs up and positioning himself between, Aziraphale paused, the tip of his cock just barely touching.

Despite the wild look in his eyes, Crowley searched Aziraphale's expression carefully.

"You don't have to," he repeated for a third time.

Aziraphale answered by pushing forward, entering him slowly and carefully until he was buried to the hilt. Crowley shuddered and gasped, arching his back as Aziraphale started moving. 

He took his time, drinking in the contrast of Crowley's auburn hair against the white duvet, yellow eyes bright in the pale light. He was temptation incarnate, bathed in the night, luring Aziraphale closer and closer to the brink with every look, word, and deed.

Crowley's head was turned, half-buried in the blankets. His fingers lingered on his lips as his mouth parted, body trembling and writhing with every thrust. He looked at the angel through half-shuttered eyes, understanding dawning: he was the main course in Aziraphale's feast, and he had every intention of enjoying him as he enjoyed every other indulgence.

 _Slowly_.

Deliciously spread beneath him, a supplicant laid bare, Aziraphale took delight in repaying Crowley for six millennia's worth of teasing. He nipped and pinched, grazing his teeth against Crowley's flesh.

Pulling out, Aziraphale dropped to his knees. Crowley sat up, but immediately fell back when he felt the shock of the angel's tongue.

" _Fuck!_ "

The expletive burst from Crowley, wrenched by force as Aziraphale helped himself to what he wanted, what he had denied himself for so long. He feasted, eyes closed, a smile playing on his lips as he reveled in the taste. Hands clawed at him from above, tangling in his hair, begging for mercy. But mercy was not what angels, least of all Aziraphale, were known for; he was a principality, the guardian of the east gate, vengeful and ruthless in his pursuit of good.

And by all the heavenly hosts, _it was good_.

Aziraphale stayed on his knees, edging Crowley closer and closer before pulling back just before he hit his peak; the demon spat harmless blessings at him, lacking any conviction in his words. The line between pain and pleasure blurred until neither of them knew which was which.

"Please!" Crowley begged, shouting at first but then dropping down to a mewling whisper. " _Please_."

A last lick earned Aziraphale another garbled blessing as he stood. Crowley was babbling now, his words running together only to be broken up by the occasional sob. Like this, at his most vulnerable, Crowley looked more like the demon he'd seen that fateful day in Eden. His canines transformed, sharper and more serpentine; his tongue, too, looked less human as he lay panting, eyes wide and luminous.

Beautiful. He was so beautiful.

With one smooth motion, Aziraphale slipped inside once more. His vision sharpened, colours took on an inhuman contrast as he watched Crowley drag his nails across the mattress, the lush cotton ripping under his suddenly elongated nails. The angel leaned forward, hooking his arms under Crowley's legs, and through the reflection in his eyes Aziraphale could see he too had transformed, his visage becoming the great and terrible countenance that had caused others of his kind to proclaim: _Be not afraid_.

He claimed a kiss, pushing Crowley's mouth open and sliding his tongue inside. Crowley wrapped his arms around him, pulling Aziraphale tighter as he deepened the kiss. Aziraphale rhythmically thrust back and forth, over and over again, as Crowley melted in his arms.

The pressure had just started to build when Crowley pulled his mouth away, amber eyes looking at him with what Aziraphale realised was _love_.

It hit him like a lorry. He'd been wrong, and for once that wrongness was perfect.

He'd always been _quite_ certain that it was impossible for a demon to feel love, for Crowley to feel the same way he did, but looking into Temptation's eyes and seeing a kaleidoscope of emotions rattled him to his core. A look that promised devotion, sacrifice, support, and joy, all at once; the look of a man as he proposed to his sweetheart, promising them not just the world but all the stars in the sky. _That's_ what the demon had been trying to say: _all of you, with all of me_ . Not just want and need, but in the way where one absolutely could not _Be_ without the other.

The knowledge of it drove him wild; he took it out on Crowley, biting and pinching and sucking and —

" _Aziraphale_."

It was his name a hushed prayer on Crowley's lips that unravelled. Aziraphale stopped holding back and thrust into him with abandon, harder and harder, feeling his belly tighten and a familiar pressure build as he whispered in his ear.

" _My love._ "

As the demon wrapped his long legs tightly around Aziraphale's waist, he suddenly had faith, in the way that angels do, that this was part of the Ineffable Plan. The two of them, since Eden, everything leading not just to the end of the world but to _this_. Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley's neck, nipping at it one more time before pulling away. He wanted to look into Crowley's eyes as he came, wanted to see what sort of expression the demon would make at the absolute height of ecstasy. 

A sharp pain shot across Aziraphale's skin as Crowley raked his fingernails down the angel's back, lingering where his wings ought to have been. 

" _Fuck_." 

Aziraphale thrust deeply once more and he came inside, his knees going weak. 

"Oh — _God_!"

Crowley came too — _hard_ — his eyes squeezing shut as he climaxed, looking entirely like he was in the most excruciating, most exquisite anguish. He bit his bottom lip, gasping out unthinkingly as fireworks exploded just outside their window and the vaseful of rosebuds all simultaneously burst into bloom. 

With a weak sigh, Aziraphale sank down, resting his whole weight on Crowley as he murmured his name and the highest of praises. Underneath him, Crowley's breath was shallow as he twitched and shivered through the last waves of pleasure. They lay like this for a while, listening to their ragged breaths and the echoes of fireworks as they exploded brilliantly across the sky, bathing the room in flashes of coloured light. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tower chimed midnight — Christmas Day.

As the last bell's echo faded into silence, they suddenly realised what Crowley had screamed in the throes of passion.

Aziraphale pulled away, staring down at Crowley — his beloved! — in bemusement.

Crowley, meanwhile, flushed scarlet, turning and hiding his face in his hand as if the Almighty Herself would descend from on high to chastise his blasphemy.

But Aziraphale grabbed his wrist and pulled it away, planting a kiss on his upturned palm and squinching his nose as he rubbed it against Crowley's until the demon smiled. Aziraphale rolled off him and kissed him again, on his cheeks, his chin, his eyelids, his brows.

"You were magnificent, darling."

"Well…"

"But you _were_. It was, as the humans say, a religious experience."

Crowley gaped at him for a second before breaking out into a wide grin.

"Cheeky bastard."

Aziraphale laughed as his vision dulled to normal; he propped himself up on his elbow, drawing Crowley closer and hooking a leg over his. Crowley, his features similarly reverted, looked at him with such a reverence that Aziraphale just had to kiss him on the tip of his nose. Somehow, he just couldn't keep his hands off him anymore.

Neither, it seemed, could Crowley, who reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb moving in gentle caresses.

"There'll be a lot of paperwork if someone finds out," Crowley murmured, a teasing note in his voice.

"You know, my dear boy," Aziraphale replied, surprising himself, "it's worth it."

Crowley smiled, catching Aziraphale's lower lip between his teeth as he kissed him.

"Happy Christmas, angel."

Aziraphale took hold of his hand, weaving their fingers together.

"Happy Christmas."


End file.
